


A Halloween Carol

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Christmas Carol, AU, All Saints - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Ghosts, Halloween, Holidays, Love, M/M, Post Season 4, Sacrifice, all hallows eve, the afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-10 21:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: With apologies to Charles Dickens, this is a mashup of BBC Sherlock and "A Christmas Carol," with sprinklings of "It's a Wonderful Life," that takes place on All Hallows Eve and All Saints Day. Yeah, I know, just go with it....  I'm not warning for major character deaths because I list ghost!Mycroft and ghost!Mrs. Hudson in the tags, so they're dead (but active) in the story. Angsty, but with a guaranteed happy ending. Happy Halloween everybody! Now complete - Happy All Saints Day.





	1. Stave 1: Mycroft's Ghost

Mycroft was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman and the undertaker. Mycroft had been the consummate rationalist and a life-long agnostic, so the clergyman’s involvement might be thought surprising. He was, however, a traditionalist down to his marrow. His detailed funeral instructions called for the full Church of England send-off, complete with a bishop and the St. Paul’s choir singing a tasteful rendition of Bach’s cantata number 198. 

Dead as a doornail, Sherlock remembered thinking six years ago, as he sat beside John in the pew opposite her Majesty, the Prime Minister, and the heads of MI5 and MI6. Why a doornail, Sherlock asked himself? He went into his mind palace to look at his copy of the OED. It was that or weep, and he refused to cry like a child again. He had cried as Mycroft died in his arms on the bare wood floor of that horrible room. 

Mycroft had reached up a shaking hand to touch Sherlock’s wet cheek. 

“Sentiment, brother mine?” 

Sherlock grasped the hand, but his throat closed. He looked down to where John was frantically pressing on the wounds in Mycroft’s thigh. Femoral artery. 

John shook his head minutely and went back to work. 

“Myc, hang on…please,” Sherlock choked out. 

“Fieldwork. Not my natural milieu. Next time, you…” 

Mycroft sighed. Then he was… not there. There was no next time. He saved others, himself he could not save, Sherlock thought as the choir sang the Agnus Dei. He went back into his mind palace to chase down the quote. Mycroft saved Rosie from foreign agents trying to pry information out of him to carry out a terrorist attack, but he paid for it with his life. Instead of listening to the bishop natter on with his platitudes about Mycroft, duty, country, and eternal life (ridiculous), Sherlock put the time to better use to plan his exit from London and from John and Rosie’s lives. 

Rosie almost died because of John’s association with Mycroft and Sherlock. They had dangerous enemies and dangerous secrets. This time Rosie had been kidnapped to try to extort information from Mycroft. Next time it would be something to do with Sherlock. A high-profile case, a madman, a drug lord seeking revenge. As long as Sherlock maintained a dangerous profession and a reputation, John and Rosie would never be safe. He would put a stop to the risk as soon as possible. He owed Mycroft that much, so that his sacrifice would not have been in vain. 

He remembered standing at Mycroft’s grave as the casket was lowered, six years ago today, the Eve of All Saints. As he stood there, he had run through several plans in dialog with the Mycroft in his mind palace. The idiot might as well make himself useful _in absentia_ , since he had managed to get himself killed in an irritatingly heroic way. He should have left the heroics to Sherlock. Sherlock should have died instead. He would gladly have died for Rosie, for John. For his brother. 

“Well, Mycroft,” he thought as a young priest said yet more useless words about eternal life and dust… Sherlock was momentarily diverted. Did the Bishop only do the show-piece, then? Where had the young priest come from? But back to the issue at hand. “I could just make it a sure thing. As you have demonstrated, death is a final solution to blackmail and manipulation because of sentiment. If I’m dead, Rosie and John won’t be in danger. Drug cocktail? No? I can hear you spluttering down there.” John was dropping a handful of earth onto the coffin. Sherlock glanced down at his hands. Dirt. He must have done it as well, but he had no memory of it. 

“If you don’t like the suicide idea, I could easily do enough drugs to develop a plausible estrangement from John. Stage a major blow-up that would make the tabloids. ‘Hat Man and Robin part ways. Family Man Watson condemns Junkie Detective!’ No? Serious criminals know not to trust the tabloids?” 

He and Mind Palace Mycroft had continued to bat around ideas through the grave-side nonsense and through the reception at Mrs. Hudson’s. He must have done some muttering out loud because Molly latched onto his elbow and offered him a cigarette. Molly hadn’t smoked in ages. She must have bought them especially for him. He was, he thought, fortunate in his friends. He would have to leave them all. And soon. 

“I can’t stay in London, can I?” 

“No, little brother,” he heard Mycrot's regretful voice. “You have to give up the Work. You’d never manage it in London. You have to give up all of them as well, your little family, if you want them to live. Remember what could have happened to Molly. Better a clean break.” 

By this time, Sherlock had escaped to the roof with the pack of cigarettes and lighter he had filched from Molly’s purse. They had already toasted Mycroft with some quite decent Scotch Lestrade brought and eaten Mrs. Hudson’s spread of delicate finger sandwiches and cakes. John had taken a fussy Rosie home to his flat a while ago, so Sherlock didn’t have to worry about being interrupted. 

“What will I do, My? I could give up the drugs for the Work. I could give them up for John. I know you want me to stay clean, but…. What will I _do_ with myself?” 

“First things first. Where is the first question. Take yourself out of London, and it will seem natural for your contacts with John to become fewer and fewer. It happens to friendships all the time. John refused your suggestion that he and Rosie move back to Baker Street. He needs to concentrate on his work and his daughter. He feels even more wary about living with you or even working with you after what just happened. He won't quite admit it to himself yet, much less to you. You needn't quarrel with him. Just let the relationship fade. That is the most painless alternative, Sherlock.” 

He pressed the hand not holding the cigarette to his chest. The least painful alternative. Mycroft was right. But, God, it hurt. He sighed. “Sussex?” 

“Too close. He would want to bring Rosie on the weekends. Might I remind you that you own Grandmère’s properties now.” 

“The Paris atelier?” 

“Hmmm.” The Mycroft-voice hesitated. “Paris might be difficult.” 

“Drugs?” 

“That, of course. And crime. Always just as tempting for you. You might be recognized. It wouldn't help John or Rosie for you to be in the papers again. Best to lay low for a while. No, I was thinking…” 

“Èze.” His own internal voice blended with Mycroft’s. 

In spite of the pain in his chest, something stirred. Some bit of life and hope. “I loved that place.” His grandmother Vernet had owned a cottage on the cliffs in the remote village in the south of France. It was empty. 

“The fact that Èze was founded by Saracen pirates in the thirteenth century should still appeal to you.” 

Sherlock smiled and took a drag on his fourth… no, fifth… cigarette. It was reassuring to know that the Mycroft in his mind was a snarky as ever. His grandmother, a notable artist, had bought the cottage perched on the cliffs overlooking the sea in the 1920s. Although it was technically part of the French Riviera, it was well north of Cannes and the tourist madness. It was still small and a bit remote. She had bought and renovated the ancient stone building as an escape from the summer heat and competitive rivalries and scandals of the Parisian art world. He spent many summers there as a child. She taught him to make croissants and bouillabaisse. She regaled him with local pirate legends as they wandered the cliffs. She allowed him to drink pastis when he was eight and lied to his parents about it afterwards. She loved him in spite of, or perhaps because of, his quirks and difficulties. 

“Art in the blood, _mon trésor,_ takes many forms. It also skips generations, _mon étoile_. Your mother and Mycroft have my blood, but not my art. You are the artist.” He was always her treasure, her star, her little cabbage, her rabbit. Rarely Sherlock. (“ _Shearluck. Pah. C'est un nom pour un barbare. Quels sont-ils penser?”)_

“But I can’t paint, mamé.” 

“You have not the eye, it is true. But you have ears and hands and voice. And soul, _petit_.” 

Sherlock remembered standing on the cliffs beside her warm bulk, the perfumed, herbal wind of the coast whipping his hair. He hid his face in her soft cotton skirt. “Am I really your favorite,” he whispered, hardly daring to hope. Mycroft was everyone’s favorite. 

A hand lightly stroked his wild hair. “Of a certainty," she said. 

That house was his. It had been his since she died. 

“But what would I do there, My?” Exiled. Away from John. Away from everything and everyone he knew. It was a high price, but one that he would willingly pay. 

“How do you feel about bees, brother mine?”  


*****  


And so it was six years later. Mycroft had been right, loathe as Sherlock was to admit it even in the depths of his mind palace. He now lived a fairly contented, if not happy, life in Villa Amandier. His grandmother had named the cottage for the flowering almond trees that surrounded it. Èze was still a remote village, thinly populated by artisans and a few restauranteurs and the odd innkeeper who managed a living from the few tourists who managed to find their way up into the mountains from the delights of Cannes and Antibes. Some in the village worked at the Parfumerie Fragonard lab and store. The village church was lovely, and the botanical garden was stuffed with the exotic plants possible because of the microclimate of the area. He rented and renovated a tiny shop in the village at 7 Rue du Barri. Coeur de Cire, proclaimed the sign in letters of gold above a green door. Heart of Wax. There he sold his honey and the candles he made during the winters. 

Sherlock tried to keep himself occupied in as innocent a way as he could manage. He sang in the choir of the village church and played violin there on major festivals. Mind Palace Mycroft found this vastly amusing, but there was little to do in the village. He tended his bees, he made honey. Without the need to concentrate for cases, and with John’s voice in his mind, he began to cook and actually eat. He made his grand-mère’s daube when autumn came and her Brioche des Rois for Epiphany. He crafted candles that were becoming recognized as works of art, he played his violin, he sang, he read. He avoided even such transparent crimes as the village afforded. He stayed away from Paris and the lures of drugs, high-profile mysteries, and sex with strangers or prostitutes. He didn't even try to pretend that all of those things did not tempt him. Increasingly, he missed being touched by another human being. He had gotten used to touch: John's occasional, awkward hugs, Greg's hand on his shoulder, Molly's pecks on his cheek, the feel of Rosie's small arms around his neck. He knew that being touched by a stranger would cure none of this longing. He missed John. He missed Rosie, and Molly, and Lestrade. 

Sometimes he missed Sherlock Holmes. He, too, had been left behind in London. He kept his hair cut short and dressed mostly in dark jeans and pullovers. The locals knew him as Will Vernet. He missed Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson, who passed away two years ago in her sleep of a massive stroke. He didn’t return for the funeral, even in disguise. He was sure she understood, but John hadn’t. It played nicely into the planned distancing. John sometimes mentioned bringing Rosie over to visit in the occasional text or email, but he was busy at work. Rosie was busy with school and friends and, increasingly, sports. Their friendship gradually seemed to dwindle to past fondness, infrequent emails, and Christmas cards. It had all gone according to plan. If Heart of Wax was more than just the name of his shop, it couldn’t be helped. 

Sherlock stood before the glossy black door of his cottage in the gloomy October twilight. The first week he lived there, he painted the old wooden door a shiny jet and installed a brass knocker in honor of the door to 221b. He was back from one of his days at the shop, selling his wares to locals and tourists and silently deducing them, a habit he hadn’t even tried to break. There was no doubt that Mycroft was dead, of course, but he stood looking at the knocker anyway, bemused. It was straight. He always (always) left it crooked, and he always thought of Mycroft when he did it. He touched the brass, wishing intensely and unreasonably, that Mycroft had been the one to straighten it. Nonsense, of course. The postman. The wind. 

He went in, locked the door behind him, and dropped his keys with a clatter on the small, antique pine table by the door. He shivered. It felt unusually cold and damp in the little house, even for the end of October. He turned on lights, built up a fire and threw on some sprigs of dried lavender. He thought about making something for dinner, but he didn’t have the heart somehow. He poured a large measure of calvados into a heavy crystal tumbler and drank it while he gazed at the fire. Then he poured another, took a sip, and picked up his violin. Bach’s Chaconne, he decided. It was that kind of evening. 

“I was always fond of that piece, although I would argue that it’s a trifle over-dramatic.” The voice came from behind him. Not Mind Palace Mycroft. That was…. Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. 

“Yes, speaking of overly-dramatic, it is I, your dead brother,” Mycroft drawled. He sported his usual Anderson & Sheppard three-piece suit. He looked like himself except for the fact that he and the suit were both translucent. Sherlock could distinctly see the brass pans in the little kitchen shining through him. 

“Not possible,” said Sherlock. 

“I would have said the same, of course, but in the interests of time shall we skip to what I taught you about evaluating evidence?” 

“When you have eliminated the impossible…,” started Sherlock. 

“…whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.” They finished together. 

“You are not dreaming, drunk, nor high. Let me assure you that I was as surprised to find that spirits continue beyond death as you are. Yet here I am.” 

Sherlock swallowed past the dryness in his throat and carefully put down the Stradivarius. His hands were shaking. What does one say to one’s dead brother? 

“I’ve missed you,” he finally said. It at least had the virtue of being true. “Why now? If you could have come to me before, why…?” 

“I had my own penances to do. Yes, yes… heaven, hell, purgatory. All quite real. I was astonished. Although Dante got it wrong about.... well, I digress. The powers-that-be looked kindly on the manner of my death, so they have allowed me to watch you for a time before I go on. May I say that I am proud of you? You’ve sacrificed. You have made a new life. They are pleased with you.” 

“Who the hell are ‘they’?” 

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. “Hard to explain and irrelevant at the moment. You’re not happy, Sherlock.” 

“I didn’t expect to be,” Sherlock replied. Mycroft’s face softened. 

“Neither is John,” he said. “Neither is Rosie. It appears we both miscalculated, Sherlock.” 

“No, we didn’t,” Sherlock hissed. “They. Are. Safe. That is all that matters to me. You were right that caring is not an advantage. Look where it landed you.” 

“Indeed,” said Mycroft, “but not in the way you mean. They said you wouldn’t take my word for it. You will have to see for yourself, as always. I can’t stay much longer. Is that grand-père’s 1900 calvados you’re swilling, brother mine? I must say I miss eating and drinking, alas. But I am to say that you will be haunted by three spirits tonight. Pay attention, Sherlock, and do use your heart as well as your head. Your future, John’s future, Rosie’s future all depend upon it.” 

“Three spirits? Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft! This isn’t 'A Christmas Carol,' for Christ’s sake.” 

Mycroft rolled his ghostly eyes. “In case you haven’t kept up with the calendar, this is, in fact, the Eve of All Saints. Anyone knows that’s when spirits visit the earth. That is why you can see me tonight, although I’ve been in and out of your life since I died. Dickens was an idiot. We don’t do visitations on Christmas Eve, of all times. We’re all celebrating elsewhere on that particular day. The music is… divine. You’ll love it. Well, I must go. You won’t see me again in this life, but I trust you won’t need to. I’ll see you later. Much later, I hope.” He grew ever more translucent until Sherlock could barely make out his outline. 

“And Sherlock,” said the faintly Mycroftian contour between Sherlock and the kitchen. 

“Yes, Myc?” 

“I loved you, you know. Always. From the first moment I saw you.” 

“I loved you, too,” Sherlock said to the empty air.


	2. Stave 2: the First of the Three Spirits

Sherlock woke suddenly, disoriented. Dull pain fingered the back of his neck. This sofa had not been intended for sleeping. The sleek black leather was hard and cold. The expensive, angular Nordic design made a deliberately chosen contrast to the lumpy, comfortable old sofa in the Baker Street flat. Sherlock had decorated the small house in France in an eclectic mix of his grandmother’s antiques and modern Scandinavian. Nothing except the outer door in any way referenced anything from his time at Baker Street, his time with John. Even the skull was packed away, wrapped in an old brocade curtain, facing the back wall of grand-mère’s old pine armoire. 

He sat up, rubbing fretfully at his aching left shoulder. The strange dream came back to him then. Where the hell had that come from? Sherlock thought about the calvados last night. He was usually quite strict with himself. No drugs, little alcohol, regular meals, frequent exercise. He knew just how easy it would be to let go of his life, and he obscurely felt that he owed that life to the people left behind in London. Something about coming home in the cool October dusk, something about the skittering of leaves across cobbles, made him think about London. He usually tried not to think about that place, that life. 

It was the night before La Toussaint, All Saint’s Day. Sherlock glanced at the sleek digital clock glowing on a nearby bookshelf. No, it was actually 12:58 a.m., so it was already La Toussaint. Halloween celebrations had become more popular in France over the years, and when he came home last night the streets had been filled with people going to parties. He passed a devil passionately kissing a mummy. The devil pressed the tall, white figure up against the wall right before the gate that led into Sherlock’s small courtyard. 

“ _Plus tard, Il vous déballer. Dois-je, ma momie?”_

The mummy laughed, a man’s deep laugh, then replied that the devil could start the unwrapping then and there if he wished. Something dark curled deep in Sherlock's core at the low murmur of the men’s voices. He pushed it down, and he pushed past them. His sleeve caught for a moment on one of the mummy’s trailing bandages, but he did not apologize. Then that damned straightened door knocker led him to think about Mycroft, which led to the liquor. He had to admit that he missed his brother, but the thought of dreaming up a Mycroft visiting from the spirit realm was ludicrous. Mycroft secretly, or so he thought, loved Christmas and Dickens’ story. Mycroft read it often to him as a child. 

Sherlock glanced at the clock again. 12:59 a.m. What had Mycroft said in the dream? The first spirit would visit him at 1:00. He scrubbed his face with his hands and stood up. He might as well make some tea. He doubted he’d get back to sleep now. 

The clock ticked over. 1:00 a.m. 

The space between Sherlock and the kitchen stirred, shimmered, and coalesced. Where before there had been only dim moonlight filtering through the lace curtains, now there was light in the form of a small figure that floated in the air, not touching the scrubbed wooden floor. At first he thought it was a child. It was small, dressed in white. Some breeze that Sherlock could see but not feel made the white robes and long white hair drift like seaweed in a tide. The white hair was surrounded in light, like a crown of stars. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the face. Not a child, then. The face was not wrinkled but he knew somehow that it was old. Old and quite beautiful. 

“Don’t you recognize me, _mon ange_? I thought it would amuse you to see all the clichés. The robe, the crown. They suit me, _non_?” 

Sherlock’s eyes grew even wider. 

“ _Mamé?_ Is it really you?” 

“But of a certainty. We can sometimes come to those we love when they need us. I am indeed your _grand-mère_ but I am also the ghost of the past. I am many things now.” 

“The ghost of the past? Long past?” 

“No, _petit_. Your past.” 

Whether this was a dream (most likely), a hallucination (unlikely), or a visit from the spirit world (highly unlikely), Sherlock decided he might as well play along. Heaven knew his daily existence was boring enough. 

“Why didn’t you come to me before?” He had asked dream-Mycroft (spirit Mycroft?) the same thing. Sherlock suddenly realized that he was angry. He felt a deep well of anger that he had, until now, resolutely repressed. As irrational as it was, he felt abandoned by his family and his friends. Loneliness clawed at his throat, so that he could barely speak. 

“I needed you so many times. Why didn’t you come until now?” 

“Ah, _mon cher_. Those times of which you speak? I was always there with you, but if you had seen me what would you have thought?” 

“Drug figment. Overdose. Hallucination.” 

“ _Certainement._ And later when you were thought dead? What then?” 

“Blood loss. Pain. Fever-dream.” 

“ _Mais oui._ Come.” She held out her hand. Sherlock stepped forward and took it, trying not to shiver as cold shot up his arm. He was suddenly afraid, not of… her… but of the idea that this was not a dream. If this was real, almost everything he believed about the nature of reality had been wrong. 

They passed through the stone wall of the cottage and into the star-sprinkled sky. His stomach lurched, and he closed his eyes. 

He felt a sharp poke in the vicinity of his ribs, and his eyes flew open again. 

“How many people get to fly, little cabbage! Do not waste it, look around you.” 

So he did. They flew by starlight and moonlight. He could make out the faint lights of towns and villages below. After a time, he saw a blaze of lights covering a large area. 

“Is that…?” 

“Oui. _C’est Paris._ Beautiful, is it not?” 

Surprisingly soon, he could make out the white chalk cliffs of Dover, shining in the moonlight. This was obviously a dream then. Sheer wish-fulfillment. England. Too soon, however, he saw Musgrave Hall. Not wish fulfillment then, but a nightmare. He never wanted to see this place again. 

They settled gently in the cool grass among the fake tombstones. The grey walls of Musgrave were intact, not the burnt out shell he had last seen. He heard laughter. Two small figures hurtled out of the front door. One was a pirate, the other was dressed as a ghost. Victor. 

“Please, grand-mère, this is cruel.” He remembered that Halloween. He remembered a lot about Victor now that his Redbeard fantasy had unraveled. It was the year before…. Before. They held plastic pumpkins. Their parents thought them old enough that year to go trick-or-treating in the village. The moon shone full overhead, and they were on their way. He remembered arguing with Victor about his white sheet. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be anything other than a pirate. 

“They look happy, do they not?” 

Sherlock nodded dumbly. They did. He could remember this night. The run through the fields, holding the pumpkin in one hand and his sword in the other. He and Victor always seemed to be running. For a time, running through the streets of London with John had felt the same. He had only seen recently the connection. 

The two figures loped off over a gentle rise. He strained to follow them until the night swallowed them up. 

“It would have been better if he had never known me. He would still be alive,” Sherlock said, finally. 

“My dear one, we can never know what might have been. All you can know is that you loved him. And that he loved you.” 

“And she killed him.” 

“He was happy in your friendship. All lives end, _petit_. About that at least the so-proper Mycroft was correct. Long or short matters very little, as you will see one day. What is of importance is that he loved you, and he was happy. And that he _is_ happy.“ 

“The people who love me suffer. Always.” 

The spirit beside him sighed. “And apart from you there is no suffering? Bah. _Vien, nous irons_ ,” she said. She clasped one of his hands in hers and they were off again. 

His heart lifted when he saw London coming into view. But then he noticed the skyline. No London Eye. No Shard. The past, he reminded himself. 

They settled on dirty pavement. Oh, God, Sherlock thought. He recognized this place. Gage Alley. It was in the warren of streets behind Great Ormond Street Hospital, near his old Montague Street flat. Windows from the hospital were glowing behind them a block away. It was the site of one of his near-misses. He was never sure whether he had intended to OD on this night or not. 

“You shouldn’t see this, _mamé_.” 

“You think I did not see worse than this in my long life, little one? If you will look, you will see another who loves you. Come.” 

She drew him forward. And there, as he expected, was Lestrade hunched over what looked like a rumpled pile of clothing. The pile shifted and he could see his own skeletal face, pale as milk. Lestrade was on the phone, yelling for an ambulance, running a hand through much darker hair than he had now. 

“I caused him so much stress and anxiety. He was just trying to help me.” 

“And what else, _petit_? Say what you are thinking.” 

“I cost him his marriage. He almost lost his career because of me. He is better off without me in his life.” 

“And would he agree, _penses tu_?” 

“He’s sentimental. Take me away from here.” 

She looked at him for a long moment, then waved her hand, and all was darkness. 


	3. Stave 3: the Second of the Three Spirits

“Get off that dreadful sofa this minute, young man.” 

Sherlock’s head was pounding. The black leather was cold as ice against his cheek. 

“I thought you had better taste. That thing looks dreadfully uncomfortable, and it clashes with your grandmother’s lovely old chairs.” 

He dragged himself upright and squinted into the darkness. It sounded like… 

“Mrs. H?” He glanced at the digital clock. 2:02. Ah. 

A misty shape grew more solid as he watched. A familiar, much-loved shape. He felt tears begin to form in his eyes. God, how he had missed her. Beyond the point of questioning what was going on tonight, he just said what was on his mind. 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t come to your funeral.” 

“It doesn’t matter a whit, Sherlock. I knew why you weren’t there.” 

“John didn’t.” It still hurt that he hadn’t been able to explain, had to let John think he no longer cared enough to even come to her service. 

She sat down beside him on the sofa. A ghostly hand reached for his. He couldn’t feel it, except for a sensation of cold, but it was comforting all the same. 

“Well, we all know that dear John is a bit of an idiot, no matter how much you love him.” 

Sherlock didn’t bother to deny it. 

“So you’re… what? The Ghost of Halloween Present?” He ran a hand through his hair, not quite believing what he had just said. 

“Exactly! I was so excited when they told me I could come. And we’re going to Baker Street! I haven’t been back since I passed. You know John and Rosie moved back in after you took yourself off to France.” She managed to make “France” sound equivalent to “Outer Mongolia” somehow. “And of course I left it to John in my will. I didn’t want to burden you with it, since you wanted to distance yourself from John.” 

“I didn’t _want_ to distance myself, Mrs. Hudson. You know why I did it.” 

“Of course _I_ know why, but do you I wonder?” Sherlock didn’t quite know what to make of that, but he let it pass. 

She stood briskly, still holding onto one of his hands. He stayed seated, hesitant. 

“I don’t _want_ to go to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson. I left for a good reason, and I try not to think about… home. What purpose would it serve to remind me of all the things I can’t have?” 

“But you don’t have all the evidence, dear. You of all people should want to observe and make your own deductions.” 

He stayed firmly on the sofa. The balance of his life here was fragile. 

“If I could get you in that car boot, I can get you to Baker Street. Being dead gives you all sorts of powers. You can’t imagine. You can stand up and come with me like an adult, or I can whisk you there on my own.” She sounded a bit over-enthused about the whisking part, so he stood up. 

And they were off. Through the cottage walls again, back out into the starry sky. He was getting almost used to it. He was relieved when he saw the London Eye lit bright orange (in celebration of Halloween, he supposed) against the London skyline. It was actually the present then. He had had more than enough of the past. 

Before he knew it, they settled on the pavement outside Speedy’s. Paper cut-outs of witches and black cats and pumpkins littered the window. A few mostly drunken revelers in costume filtered around them. He supposed they couldn’t see him or his companion. So it was still the middle of Halloween night. Surely John and Rosie would be in bed. What would there be to see? 

“Go on then,” Mrs. Hudson said. “We’ll walk up. Still have your key?” 

“Can’t you just 'whisk' us in, then?” 

“Of course,” she said. “But I thought you might want to use your key. For old times’ sake.” 

He did, actually. He dug into his trouser pocket and produced his key ring. He always kept the keys to Baker Street on him, even after all these years. 

“I thought as much,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. “John never changed the lock to the flat. On you go.” So he went. Up the steps, being careful to avoid the places that creaked. Because of course John and Rosie were asleep by now. He gently, reverently, opened the door to the flat. And there sat John, in his old chair. The small lamp on the side table shed golden light on his face. 

Almost six years since he had seen John, and every year was etched onto his face. Wrinkles that hadn’t been there before scored his forehead. There were bags under his eyes. His hair was mostly grey and cut very short. John was holding an empty tumbler in his hand. He frowned at it, reached for the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table beside him, and poured the tumbler half full. 

This wasn’t…. John looked so much older. John looked miserable. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He had sounded fine in his emails. He said he was fine. That everything was fine. 

“Mrs. Hudson, what happened….” 

“Wait,” she said, cutting him off. 

Just then John’s mobile rang. He snatched it up from its place beside the bottle of whiskey. 

“Rosamund Mary Watson, where the _hell_ are you? You were supposed to be back by 11:00…. No, no… that wasn’t what we agreed. Ginny's parents were supposed to bring you back here hours ago. Why didn't you answer your phone? I don’t care what Ginny’s parents said. No. Let me speak to her mother…. Oh, not there? Neither is her father? You are _nine years old_ Rosie. You are grounded for a month… No… No. I. don’t. care. I’m calling Uncle Greg. He’ll come and get you. No, I can’t come. What? Never mind why, just…. Jesus, Rosie. No, I don’t care if you hate me.” John stabbed at his phone. Waited. “Yeah. Greg. Rosie is at Ginny’s house. Supposed to be home hours ago. Yeah, daughters…right? Don’t trust a cab at this time of night, even if I trusted her to call one… Could you? And, look, sounds like quite a party going on there. And no parents… so. Yeah, better check… Christ, I hate to ask but… Yeah. Thanks, mate. 48 Hamilton Terrace. Lisson Grove. Yeah. Sorry again…. I know.” 

John carefully ended the call, then threw the phone across the room where it landed with a thud under the skull painting. 

Sherlock moved toward John. Mrs. Hudson reached out and pulled him back. 

“He can’t see you, dear. Wouldn’t be able to hear you.” 

“I thought they were happy.” 

“Oh, Sherlock, as if John could ever be happy without you. He thinks the same thing, you know. That you’re fine. Because that’s what you tell him. And if John’s not happy, how could Rosie be happy? They need you.” 

“But I’d put them in danger, just by being here.” 

“Rosie is in danger now, in spite of everything you tried to do. There are all kinds of danger, Sherlock.” 

“Anything could be going on at that damned party," Sherlock fretted. "Drugs? Sex? Oh, God… she’s just a child.” 

“There are pitfalls everywhere, Sherlock. We both know that, better than most people. You didn’t think things through, darling boy. Too emotional.” 

He couldn't deny it. She had always seen right through him. But he had tried so hard to think it through. He tried again. He tried to contact Mind Palace Mycroft, but Mycroft’s voice was silent now. John and Rosie didn’t seem to be happy, but at least they were alive. Maybe John would meet someone. Rosie needed a mother, that’s all. He watched John drink as they all waited for Lestrade to bring Rosie home. Sherlock prayed that she was alright. If Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were spirits, it seemed likely that God did, in fact, exist. So he prayed. 

After what seemed an eternity, they heard footsteps on the stairs. Lestrade came into the room, followed by a small figure with its head down. 

“Rosie, are you alright?” John was already out of his chair, stalking toward the girl. He knelt down and put his arms around her, hugging her tight. “Greg…?” 

“She’s fine John. Nothing… We’ll talk in a minute. Rosie, apologize to your dad.” 

John help her away from him and looked her over. Sherlock got his first real look at her at the same time. She looked so much like Mary. Wavy blond hair, delicate bone structure. She had John’s eyes, though, and those eyes were ringed by exaggerated lines of black, the eyelids picked out in silver glitter. Her mouth was a slash of dark red. She looked nine going on at least sixteen. 

John apparently took this in at the same time Sherlock did. 

“What the _bloody hell_ is on your face, Rosie? And what happened to your skirt?” Sherlock noticed that the black skirt of her witches’ costume didn’t even touch the floor where she knelt. It looked like it had been roughly cut off. Scissors? 

“It’s just _makeup_ , daddy. All the girls had it except me, so Anna lent me some. And Ginny cut off my skirt so I would look _normal_. It was a _party_.” In spite of her excuses, she had started to cry. She obviously knew that she had bent the rules until they had broken. 

“Rosie…,” John started. Greg caught his eye and, behind Rosie’s back, shook his head. John swallowed. 

“Look, Rosie, you know we’ll have to talk tomorrow, right?” 

Rosie looked down at the floor and nodded. John hugged her again. 

“Go to bed, yeah? And wash that stuff off your face.” Rosie sniffed forlornly and went back outside to the landing. Soon they hear her steps dragging up toward John’s old room. Hers, now, obviously. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. This was not how he pictured John’s and Rosie’s idyllic life without him in Baker Street. 

“She’s ok John,” Greg said quickly before John could even get out a question. “But you were right to call me. Nothing happened to Rosie, except maybe for some spiked punch, but you were right about the parents not being there. Ginny’s older sister was the one throwing the party, but some of Rosie’s friends were there, too. No parents, like you thought. I took a couple of uniforms with me, just in case. There were lots of drugs. And...sex in some of the rooms upstairs. Maybe some statutory rape….” 

Suddenly John ran from the room. They heard him throwing up in the bathroom. Greg scrubbed his hands over his eyes and sighed. 

Sherlock felt like throwing up himself when he thought about what might have happened. He could hear John, still gagging. 

“God, Sherlock, I wish you were here,” Greg muttered. He went into the kitchen, got a tumbler off a shelf, came back into the lounge and poured himself some of John’s scotch. He lifted the glass to the air, in what happened to be ninety degrees off from where Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were standing. 

“Here’s to you, you bastard. I know why you left, but I need you. John needs you. And Rosie…” Just then they all heard water running, then the bathroom door opening. “Yeah,” Greg said, lowering his voice, “just come home, ok?” He downed the whiskey and turned to face John. 

“Sorry,” John said. “Just the thought…” 

“I know,” said Greg. “Listen, we busted the people for drugs, took in the ones we suspect of… yeah. Called the parents. They’re in Edinburgh at a conference. Say they had no clue, were horrified, yadda, yadda. So that’s sorted. Don’t be too hard on Rosie. I really don’t think she knew much of what was going on.” 

“I’m a shit parent, Greg.” Greg didn’t exactly deny it. 

“We all are, more or less. It’s tough, innit? Talked to Sherlock lately?” 

John sighed. He sank into his chair and motioned to the one across from him. Sherlock’s chair. Greg sat in it. Sherlock was strangely ok with that. 

“Not so much. He never seems to have much to say anymore. Neither do I, come to that. I work. I try to take care of Rosie. He keeps bees. Makes candles, for Christ’s sake. We don’t seem to know what to say to each other.” 

Greg reached out his tumbler. John poured more whiskey into it. 

“How about ‘come home, Sherlock’ for a start?” Greg asked. “Don’t you miss him? God knows I do. It’s just not as much _fun_ without him, you know? And my solved case rate is in the toilet. He must be bored out of his mind over there. _Candles_! Jesus.” 

“Of course I miss him,” John said. “But we’ve both changed. Maybe I just miss who we _were_. And neither of us are those people anymore. Maybe I miss my life before…. Before Rosie. I love her, Greg, I do. But maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a parent. Even if Sherlock came back, I don’t know what we would… what we could…. Never mind. Water under the bridge. Let sleeping dogs lie? How many clichés can we come up with?” 

Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson, full of grief and anger. 

“Why did you bring me here?” he hissed. “At least before, I could think of them as happy. I can’t come back. If I went back to the work, they would be in greater danger, and if I didn’t he would be bored with me. And I would be less than no help with his daughter. If I had picked her up tonight, I would have been arrested for assault, for one thing. Now I’ve lost even the _illusion_ that they were happy.” 

She patted his arm, not even ruffled by his anger. 

“The night isn't over, Sherlock. Do you truly think I would have been part of this if it weren’t for your good?” 

“It hurts like hell,” he replied. 

“One more spirit,” she said. “And remember, it is darkest before the dawn.” Suddenly they were standing on the sidewalk outside Speedy's again. 

“Oh, God,” he said. He heard the bells of St. Marylebone’s striking three. She kissed his cheek and was gone. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he saw a black cab pull up beside him on the otherwise deserted street.


	4. Stave 4: the Last of the Spirits

The black cab slowly pulled up to the curb. It stopped with the back passenger door right in front of him. Sherlock swallowed. It was obviously for him. The windows were blacked out, and the headlights were off. 

If he remembered his “Christmas Carol” correctly, this should be the Ghost of Halloween Yet to Come. Sherlock thought of his lonely life. He wasn’t particularly anxious to learn anything about his future. Dickens’ story had been full of death and graveyards at this point. What would happen if he just turned away? 

Slowly, silently, the driver’s window lowered. 

“Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes,” said a familiar voice. 

The cabbie doffed his flat cap. His eyes sparkled, and a cheeky grin was plastered on his pale face. 

“You’re dead,” said Sherlock. 

“Too right,” said Jeff Hope. “Bet you didn’t expect to see me again, guv.” 

“I didn’t order a taxi.” 

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one. Get in.” The cabbie settled his cap on his grey hair and gestured with a tilt of his head to the back seat. 

“Going to try to kill me again?” Sherlock made no move to get in the cab. 

“Nah,” said the cabbie. “I don’t want to kill you Mr 'olmes, even if your doctor friend hastened my own demise. No hard feelings. I was done for pretty soon anyway, and going that way had more style than an aneurism. I’m just part of the service, now. Workin’ my penances so I can see me kids again one of these days. It was always about them, you knew that. We’re just takin’ a little ride. Things you need to see. Things you need to understand.” 

“Where are we going?” 

“Nowhere unless you get in the bloody cab. C’mon, play the game.” Hope smiled up at him, challenging. 

Sherlock sighed, opened the back passenger door, and settled in. 

“That’s the spirit!” The cab pulled slowly away from the curb, into the deserted street. The lights were still off. 

“So where are you taking me? Let me guess, a graveyard, you being the Ghost of Halloween to come and all?” 

“Wrong, genius. We’re goin’ to _two_ graveyards.” 

Sherlock’s blood suddenly ran cold. “Whose?” He could barely force out the words. “My brother’s? My landlady’s?” He knew about those. He could just about bear those. 

“Now, that would be telling. You wouldn’t want to spoil the effect would ya?” 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah, maybe a bit.” Soon they were pulling through an iron gate. The church looked familiar. Oh. 

“My grave,” said Sherlock as they stopped before the familiar black stone. Still no dates. Just his name. “It’s empty, you know.” 

“Not anymore it ain't.” 

Sherlock’s heart tripped in his chest, sped up. He lifted his right hand and rubbed at the point on his chest where Mary’s bullet had ripped through it. It still hurt when the weather changed. When he missed John. When he was particularly stressed. Like now. 

“When? How?” 

Hope turned around and looked at him steadily. 

“You realize that this is the future, so we’re talking probabilities. They calculate probabilities, so that’s what I’m supposed to show ya.” 

“Just tell me how and when.” 

“When? Probabilities say eleven years from now.” 

Eleven years. He would just be in his mid-50’s. So not old age. Maybe disease? Or… 

“How?” 

“Sure you wanna know?” 

“Get on with it. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To repent the error of my ways?” 

“It’s a beauty. You’re gonna love it. Suicide by serial killer.” 

“What?” 

“Only you, Sherlock. I’m glad I got to be the one to tell you, given our history and all. I know you love a good serial killer.” 

“What happened? Happens?” 

“After John… well. After that, you didn’t care what happened. Started up your work again, hell for leather. Your friend Lestrade claims that you were looking for a way to off yourself. And you came up with a hell of a way. It’ll be in all the papers. To your credit, you left enough info that they’ll get her. Yeah, it’s a woman. Rare, for a serial killer. Prime bit of detecting you do on this one. But you let your guard down at the end. Moved to Paris, took up the Work. You wanted it all to be over. Least it wasn’t drugs, I’ll give you that.” 

“After. John. _What?_ ” 

“That’s the other grave. Gotta show you, then I can answer questions.” 

Sherlock put his head in his hands. John. 

The cab snaked its way through silent streets. Soon, as Hope had promised, they were in another graveyard. Corpus Christi. John’s family was Catholic, so that made sense. Over a small rise, behind the church, and there it was. 

Hope stopped the cab, got out, and opened the passenger door. 

Sherlock slid out, and they walked together toward the modest grey stone. John Hamish Watson. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, thought Sherlock. And it wasn’t yet. Not yet. John had a date on his stone. Ten years and a couple of weeks from today. If ‘today’ was still November the first. 

“What happened? What _may_ happen?” 

“Two minds with but a single thought,” said Hope. “Touching, really. Except his was suicide pure and simple.” 

“Gun?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I can’t believe he would do that to Rosie,” said Sherlock. 

“Give the man credit. He waited ‘til she was away at uni. They hadn’t been close in a while. He was depressed, bored, alone. Didn’t feel that he was much of a father. He’s drinking one night, and he just gives up.” 

“God,” said Sherlock. “I didn’t know. I didn’t _see_. Can I change this?” 

“'Are these the shadows of things that will be, or are they shadows of things that _may_ be?’ That’s what old Mr. Dickens had Scrooge ask,” said the cabbie. 

“And what’s the answer?” whispered Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on the stone. 

“Same as Dickens had the spirit say. And I’m authorized to say the same to you. ‘Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change.'” 

Sherlock lifted his chin and turned to look at Hope. “Then take me back, because I’m changing… everything.” 

Hope grinned. “Good on you! I’ll have you back before you know it. And no charge.”


	5. Stave 5: the End of It

Sherlock groaned. His back hurt. His neck hurt. The damned sofa! He was back on the sofa. Daylight filtered in through the lace curtains. He sat up slowly and ran his hands through his hair. One thing was certain. He was going to get rid of the bloody Scandinavian monstrosity and get something more comfortable. 

Then it occurred to him that if today went as he hoped, he might just leave it. If all went well, he and John might be using his grandmother’s house just for holidays. And Rosie of course. Was all that a dream last night or had he really been visited by spirits? Was it just his subconscious that had picked up subtle clues from John’s messages (or lack of messages) to come to the conclusion that all was not right with him? With Rosie? 

He decided it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he could try to change things. He could take a risk and tell John how he really felt, what he really wanted. He stood up. He felt dizzy and sore. Damned sofa. He also felt…. He did a quick inventory. Hungry. Terrified about the risks he was about to take. Also… exhilarated. John. Rosie. London. He was ready to take the risk. Mycroft, Spirit-Mycroft, Mind Palace Mycroft was right about at least one thing. He wasn’t happy. He had been willing to sacrifice his own happiness for John’s safety, but his fear had gotten in the way of his understanding. Perhaps he had misjudged John's needs as well? John Watson (his John, he thought) wouldn’t willingly choose safety over adventure. If John, like Sherlock, had sacrificed his own happiness for his daughter, choosing safety over everything – then his daughter was being cheated out of the real John Watson. And they were both being cheated out of the real Sherlock Holmes. 

He strode to the front door and flung it open. The day was clear, bright, and cool. Golden sunlight, heavenly blue sky. A boy in a bright blue coat was passing the gate in front of his house. Was it still the day after Halloween? How long had all this taken? He called out. 

“ _Qu’est-ce qu’il y a aujourd’hui_?” 

The boy stopped at the gate. He smiled. 

“ _La Toussaint, Monsieur_.” He held up some yellow flowers. Chrysanthemums. “ _Je vais au cimetière voir mon grand-père._ ” Then he was off. 

Just then, bells from the church started to peal. All Saints. It was still _La Toussaint_. He had the whole day ahead of him. He intended to use it wisely. 

Sherlock called and arranged for a small charter jet. He had money. Especially after Mycroft died, he had more money than he had ever known what to do with. At least he could use it to get him to London by this afternoon. He called and arranged for a cab to the airport at Cannes. He made tea, toast, and honey to fortify himself for the day ahead. John, he thought, would be proud of him. He showered and dressed carefully in his favorite violet shirt and the one London suit he had kept at the back of the armoire. 

Then he went to church. He lit candles for his grandmother and his brother. One for Mrs. Hudson. He hesitated, then dropped more coins into the box and lit a candle for Jeff Hope. Spirits or memories or dreams. Whatever they were, they deserved that much from him. Maybe John would go with him later today to lay some chrysanthemums on Mycroft’s and Mrs. Hudson’s graves. Sentiment, of course. He found he didn’t care one bit. 

By mid-afternoon, he was in London. He had rushed to get here, but now he hesitated on the pavement outside 221b for long minutes. He even went into Speedy’s for some tea to settle his nerves. No-one recognized him, and he didn’t recognize the young woman behind the counter. He remembered saying something about love and vacillation on the pavement to John. That seemed a lifetime ago. He finished his tea and went back to the glossy, black door that represented home to him. 

He took a deep breath, took out his keys, and fitted the old key into the lock. It still turned. John hadn’t changed the lock. He stepped into the foyer and stood at the bottom of the stairs. He hadn’t wanted to warn John of his visit or the reason for it. Some things needed to be said in person. He needn’t have worried that John and Rosie wouldn’t be at home. 

They were at home, and they were yelling at each other. 

“It’s not _fair_ ,” came a young girl's voice. Rosie, obviously. “I didn’t know her parents weren’t going to be there! You can’t ground me for something that’s not my fault.” 

“You should have called me, damn it! You knew it wasn’t right that there was no adult there. And I can ground you anytime I want, young lady.” 

“I _hate_ you! All you do is tell me what _not_ to do. And what I do wrong. We never do anything fun anymore. All you do is work and drink. I wish my mother was still alive, so that I could go to live with _her_!” 

Something crashed. Chair? He heard footsteps. Time to provide a distraction, he thought. He mounted the steps rapidly, deliberately hitting the ones the creaked. 

John flung the door open. He looked terrible, thought Sherlock. He looked wonderful, thought Sherlock. 

“Sherlock! What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?” 

“I wanted to surprise you.” John stared. Rosie poked her head under John arm. 

“Who’s that?” 

Sherlock’s heart sank. Rosie didn’t even know who he was. Well, of course she didn’t. He had deliberately distanced himself. Idiot. 

“Surprise,” he said softly. Had this been a really bad idea? Was it a bad idea? 

Suddenly John grinned, and it was like the sun coming out. 

“My God, you cock… um… yeah. Rosie, _this_ is Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Wow,” she said. “Daddy talks about you all the time! And he let me read some of his blog. I sort of wondered if he made you up. Like in a story?” 

“Well, I am the real Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh,” he said, smiling at her. And, suddenly, he did feel like the real Sherlock Holmes again. In the flesh. 

Then there were hugs and tea and flurries of questions. Rosie tried to enlist him on her side in the grounding war, which was thoroughly explained to him by both parties. When all the particulars of that incident lined up with his ‘dream,’ he came to the logical, and astonished, conclusion that the spirits had actually visited him. He had somehow seen what was happening in London from the abominable sofa in Èze. That was going to take some getting used to. 

He sided with John, of course. Rosie rolled her eyes but seemed resigned. She went off to her room. John and Sherlock were finally alone. 

“So, here we are,” said John. He looked down and reached for his glass of whiskey. 

Sherlock knew he would have to be the brave one. He leaned forward and gently took the glass from John’s fingers. He set it carefully on the little side table with one hand. The other he left resting gently on John’s fingers. 

Deep breath. He could do this. What John did with it was up to him. 

“John, there’s something I should say. I’ve always wondered what would happen if I said it, but I was afraid.” 

John looked up. “Afraid of what?” 

“Afraid I would lose your friendship. Afraid I would put you and Rosie in danger.” 

“You can say anything to me, Sherlock. Anything. You’ll never lose my friendship.” John turned his hand over and clasped Sherlock’s fingers in his. “You’ll never lose _me_. God, I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you, too,” Sherlock said. Stalling. Just a little longer. He looked at their clasped hands. Now. 

“I love you, John. I’m _in_ love with you. I don’t know if that’s something you ever….” 

John started to move. Started to draw his hand away. Oh, well. Sherlock never really thought it was possible, but he still needed to try. 

“Wait, John. Please let me finish.” John stilled. “I want _you_. I’ve known that for a long time. I want to be part of your life. I want to be part of Rosie’s life. I want to come home, John.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

“Can I move now?” John’s voice was steady. Sherlock nodded. He had said what he needed to say. 

“Pillock,” said John. “I was just moving so that I could get a better angle to kiss you. Can I kiss you?” 

Sherlock nodded again. So John leaned forward, put a gentle hand on his cheek, and kissed him. “I never thought this was anything you wanted. I missed you every day. I wanted you. Every day. Am I an idiot?” 

“Yes,” said Sherlock when he managed to take a breath. “But then most people are.” 

“Come home, Sherlock. Please,” said John. And so Sherlock did. 

To John, who did not die for many decades, he became a lover and, soon, a devoted husband. To Rosie, he became a much-loved second father. He softened. He smiled much more. He even went to church on occasion. Anderson and Donovan laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him. 

In this life, he had no further intercourse with spirits, at least to his knowledge. And in the next life? Ah, that’s another story.


End file.
